


Cryptkeeper

by SleepwalkingTimDrake



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Character Death, Everyone is Dead, Except Tim Drake, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, I can not stress this enough, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Character Death, Talking To Dead People, Tim Drake Angst, Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepwalkingTimDrake/pseuds/SleepwalkingTimDrake
Summary: In a world where the above and below exist like a warped mirror, Tim was a Crypt keeper to heroes.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	1. Almost A Man

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, welcome to my Cryptkeepers au. I was inspired to do this by the Green Rider series' underground city for the tombs of royalty and heroes. This isn't a crossover as I'll be expanding on it in my own way but just be aware if you notice similarities.
> 
> Thank you so much to Whistle_Mist for beta-ing. Love you! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sir Jason’s tomb feels almost warm. A low fire kept banked in the hearth and the many colorful bookshelves that lined the walls blocked out the gray colors and stone of the hall of heroes.

Tim revels in this duty. He couldn’t be prouder to claim it as his own. The last Cryptkeeper had shown him which books to pull out, which were too delicate to touch with naked skin. How to wrap his hands in silk and hold the book half-closed as to not crease the spine and prevent the marring of the pages by the oil of his hands. How to read in the low light of heath and the dimmed covered lanterns that were his only source of light. Never letting an open flame go un-snuffed.

Too frightening was the prospect of losing Sir Jason’s literary hoard.

Tim sat at the edge of his seat as he leans towards Jason’s sarcophagus. It was tempting. To lean back on the wood worn soft by centuries of Crypt keepers. He knew there was no risk of splinters. The wood polished smooth by generations of fabric sitting in this very spot to read to the young hero in his final sleep.

Tim’s own voice often shook with the sudden rapture of it. He read the same words as his teacher. The same words that had spun a tale the length of generations for the sleeping boy. Words Sir Jason had once read himself.

Not in his tomb of course.

He had belonged in the world above before his death.

Sometimes, Tim wondered what he would have done without the crypts. His purpose in caring for the dead. For the sleeping.

Some days he’s glad he’ll never have to consider it.

His voice wobbles slightly in the silent tomb, he’s lost his place.

He murmurs an apology, scooching forward on his perch to better see Sir Jason’s effigy as he reads.

Sir Jason’s effigy was one of his favorites. The almost-man looked friendly. A head of curls that Tim knew from the paintings that filled the hall was dark. The exact color lost to time and the fading of tapestries woven before his great grandparents let out their first wails. Stone was an unyielding medium. Still, in the strong features not yet finished growing from soft cheeks, Tim could imagine Sir Jason looked soft when he smiled. He saw it in the dimple he was sure the artist had meant to include. In the creases around the man’s closed eyes. Made to look as if he was simply dreaming, even with the hardness of stone keeping them still and almost stern.

Tim wonders about his eyes.

Mirrors weren’t uncommon in the world of crypts. Princes and princess’ tombs, rulers of all kinds had held important mirrors in their possession when they’d passed and the items were brought down with their bodies. Fitting their tombs with the items of their life to give them comfort even in death.

Tim had seen his own face.

He knew it wasn’t the same.

Light below wasn’t like it was above. He’d been told of the sun and chandeliers all lit with flames. Of open candles left to burn their wicks to ash. Of fires consuming wood and tinder fast enough to reach passed his head in height.

When he’d watch his teacher’s face alight as he stoked the fire, he could just make out the swallowed translucent skin he knew all Crypt keepers had. Pale eyes watching the fire as it dimmed, his eyes’ color indistinguishable as if it had been washed out by the light of the flames.

Tim knew he looked much the same. His skin may wrinkle less, hold no folds along the creases of his eyes. But he’d need no mirror to know he still looked much the same. Life below stole the color from all but the dead, only time took from the dead.

His eyes traced a path from the curl resting on Sir Jason’s forehead to the scar that graced his lips.

Sir Jason… He had been colorful.

Gently shut the book chosen for tonight's reading.

A tale of lovers whose family and loved ones throw them into plots of revenge in the desolate hamlet they’re from. Tim found it sad, but according to the older Crypt keepers it had been a favorite of the knight’s when he’d been a boy.

The book went carefully back on the shelf that held his favorites. He ran a silk-wrapped finger down the spine. Older than he could tell. In a faraway time, another flesh and blood hand held this book. One turned colorful with the world above, the sun, the candles, the unbanked fires. One such hand had held this and lovingly turned the pages as Tim had done not seconds before.

Pages that now could be touched with naught but silk for fear of destroying the paper that this almost-a-man had loved so dearly. A spine that would never again be touched by a flesh and blood hand. Colorful or not. Never again would it feel the warmth of hands eager to find the story’s end.

Tim’s breath comes back in gasps.

The tomb silent but for his own breath. They bounce off the walls and reverberate through over stone like they were the quick gasping breath of hundreds.

Tim unwrapped the silk from his hands, the fabric though cool to the touch reveals the sweat of his palms.

He can't help but grimace.

Disgusting.

He wipes it on his trousers and heads for the door. The heavy stone that seals the entrance had been prompted to the side while he tended to the young hero’s comfort. A guard would care to the closing as Tim was unable to even shift it from its place.

He looks back towards the young man’s effigy, books, and the chair that had held so many.  
He thinks of a young, almost-man, who’s favorite stories spoke of love and miscommunications of laughable proportions. He thinks of a young man whose cheeks were still full of a child’s plumpness and a jaw just now beginning to sprout hair. He thinks of his death, the wounds that lay beneath the sarcophagus’ careful features. Of the Martyr's death that not-yet-grown boy had borne for the realm.

Tim thinks until his lantern flickers low and he knows another dead wait for his care in the hall.

He smiles.

“Sleep well, Jason.”


	2. In for a Peccadillo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim reflects on both the utter state of his room and his mentor's absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, back again and hopefully will start updating more frequently. this was a bugger of a chapter to write and edit and I had so many wonderful people help me out. So thanks to ErinNovelist and the mysterious helper from the Bat Family 18+ discord and my friend and often Beta, WhistleMist

Tim shucks off his over shirt as he moves into the darkness of the Crypt Keepers’ chamber. It’d been a long day and he knew tomorrow would be another one. Despite the chill of the halls the chamber always felt warm to Tim. He reaches out for the shallow groove along the wall's edge that his mentor had shown him when he was young. Carrying Tim in his arms when he was too small to reach. Even in the dark, he closed his eyes and let the memory take him over. Of his mentor's much larger hand holding his to the wall while they both ran their fingers along it. 

It wasn’t much. 

Tim knew that. 

But he could almost feel it. He could pretend the warmth wasn’t just from the fire he’d banked earlier, from the exertion of the day, from his own blood rising in his face at the childishness of it all. His mentor's hands had always seemed so big. Strong and steady in the way Sir Jason’s books described trees right until the day he’d finally found peace. 

It’s been so long since his mentor held his hand. 

Tim had grown up in that time. He’d cared for the dead by himself, he’d cared for himself, he’d even cared for his dying mentor. Tim’s fingers hit on the small oil lamp the groove brought him to. He knew it would. He’d known. And yet,  
Tim skews his face tight as he holds the memory in his grip. 

He didn’t want to open his eyes and know it was gone just yet. He didn’t want to turn the lamp light on and see an empty room.

\---------

A Cryptkeeper abode was small.

The cave had been dug out centuries before, or at least that's what Tim had been told. Marks left from workers long-dead shaped all but the floor which was worn smooth. In the middle of the room, a wooden table and a pair of mismatched chairs sat where Tim had left them, still cluttered from tea. 

His dining set was spread across a wrinkled sheet he'd used as a stand in for the table cloth currently laying dirtied in the corner with his other shirts. The pile seemed to be growing faster than ever before. Perhaps, Tim considers, if he didn’t keep the fire banked when he left he’d sweat less. 

He had a few garments and while he could wear them several times before they smelled. The sweat made the dust and damp of the caves still to him like glue. He would at least have to consider it. The tombs, Sir Jason’s room especially, were always warm. If he spent a few solid counts of ten by Sir Jason’s fire before he left the chill till he got his fire lit might not be too much of a bother. 

Tim left his shirt strewn across a chair as he trudged through what felt like molasses. He’d debate the matter later when his limbs weighed as they were supposed to.

His vision was hazy and unfocused as he stumbled around in the low light towards the relative comfort of a well earned nap.

Two adjoining beds of stone stuck out from the walls. Tim began the dubious work of unfolding and straightening out the layers of blankets he’d shoved aside earlier so he could use his bed as a seat. Out of habit his gaze drifts to the unoccupied bed. It sat empty except for an arithmetic book Tim had left when he’d gone to tend to his job. It’s sleeping mats rolled up with a second set of dishes stacked neatly beside it in a corner.

Even through his daze, Tim’s face flushes bright with shame as he hurries to snatch the book up and dropping back into the fire warmed blankets of his bedding, face flaming. He’d been distracted. 

With a sigh, he rolls over to look at the empty bed. It didn’t look much like it had when his mentor had used it. . He liked it though, seeing stray belongings tucked beside the bed felt more like the space was waiting for someone than missing them. 

Tim knows that wasn’t wrong either. 

Someday he’d have to clean up after meals, he’d have to open the arithmetic books to teach someone else. He could bundle them close as they learned to trace the patterns in the wall.

He could hold their hand, just like he wanted to be held. 

Tim tried to imagine a little hand in his. Perhaps their hands would be soft like the kid gloves in Sire Jason’s room. His fingers run down his own palm. Babies weren’t born with the calluses of a grown man. They were round, plush even, and wrinkly like fresh baked bread. Tim couldn’t help it, chuckling at the thought of rows of babes pulled from the bakers oven with chubby little arms joined together. Face fresh and pink from the heat.

Someday Tim would live it all again from the other side. It wouldn’t just be him and the dead.

Someday there wouldn’t be an empty bed. 

Well, not quite… There would be a long time before that someday came. His hands were callused but not worn by time like his Mentor. There were other cryptkeepers who would soon be too old to shine armor and too feeble to raise daily from their beds. 

Tim tosses back and forth, bedding catching round his ankles. His stomach will pitch a fit soon but he didn’t want to leave the fire warmed blankets yet. His mind and hands still tingling from his memories of his mentor. He could indulge his imagination a bit longer still.

He wonders sometimes if his mentor had tried to call him. 

He knows it’s frowned on. The dead are the ones that call us to serve them. To try and impose your living will on a child’s fate is blasphemous. But he couldn’t help the warmth that bubbles up in his chest when he imagines his mentor had. Even among the guilt at disparaging his Mentor’s faith in those who’d passed. To imagine it, to imagine being… 

“Wanted.” It comes out in a half choked whisper.

Tim lets a moment of revulsion pass, shiver running up his spine as it always does.

His arms around his stomach, his toes curling and uncurling as the giddiness sets in. He couldn’t help the smile, the movement of his limbs. The lead feeling in his gut was nothing compared to the utter intoxicating feeling of being... wanted. 

The feeling fills him and he tries not to consider that fearful part of himself that wonders why he needed to be called in the first place. He doesn’t have to think of it. He doesn’t. Tim has only memories of the crypts.

The world above was limited. Not everyone was a king or queen. Tim knew from the stories of heroes like Sir Jason and Sir Richard that many had faced unbearable hardship before they found themselves in the favor of the King or made their way to the castle gates. 

The cryptkeepers were the lucky ones. 

Tim was one of the lucky ones. 

He whistles. 

“Luck is the lark to fly high… but luckier still is the Robin who knows the sky before it even opens its eyes,”

Rolling on his back, Tim kicks his bedding to the floor when it catches his legs up in the mess he’d made of them earlier. His earlier attempts at straightening it out ruined. His hands behind his head as he watched the display of shadows on the ceiling cast by the low embers. It felt silly to think of the children’s rhyme.

He’d been too young to remember more than feelings of the Above. He should feel proud of himself. His parents would be, he was certain. He hadn’t died to the elements when they’d set him by the crypts entrance. Instead, he’d crawled into the darkness and into the waiting arms of his mentor. At least, that’s how he imagined it.   
He sinks deeper into his bed and, catching sight of the piling wash, groans. Ruefully missing the sheet that hung crooked on the table as wool scratched his exposed skin.. 

He doesn’t know when his time will come. Not when he lets the washing pile up to the point of repurposing his bedding. Not when he still wants so desperately to have been called. As it stands, he can only dream of being lured into the dark by his mentor's steady voice and open arms that meet him halfway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So remember when I said I was gonna whip out like one or two chapters a week for my two chapter fics? Yeah uhhhh that was before I decided to take a break from introducing another dried up batfam member and focus on Tim for a chapter... THIS WAs TOrTuRE TO WrITe! 
> 
> Seriously, I'm happy with the results and I think it was needed for pacing but omg, this chapter when through so many rewrites. In the long run tho, it was very helpful for me figuring out what I want out of this story and how dark I want it to go. 
> 
> I'll hope to see you soon! 
> 
> BONUS*
> 
> There's a hint in this chapter but who's corpse do you think Tim will tidy up for next?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed the fic!! Thank you so much for making it to the end. Please give kudos if you liked it and leave a comment! I love to hear what you think and hope I can do better in the future!
> 
> This is a fic about death and what happens to the bodies of those who die so there may be more graphic descriptions of death or corpses in the future.
> 
> I'll be adding elements from my background in medieval studies and long history of reading fantasy as I go
> 
> Hope you stick around! 
> 
> I'll be posting again soon!


End file.
